


a leak in last night's dream

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: there will be music despite everything (sw/mcu au) [3]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (for some of the star wars gang), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Amnesia, Anakin Needs a Hug, Angst and Humor, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover Pairings, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Multi, Pre-Femslash, Semi-sentient Infinity Stones, tw depiction of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: You’ve reached Erik Selvig. Leave a message after the beep.

  "Hey, Erik! It’s Darcy. Again. Me and John are checking out this floating truck near the Thames, you’re missing out on all of the fun."
or: Anakin Skywalker gets possessed, gets kidnapped to Asgard, and accidentally gets his memory back. meanwhile, Darcy Lewis wrestles with missed calls and flirts with a mysterious new intern. it'd be a normal week, except for Thor and her missing boss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Bruce Bond's "[Fiat Lux](http://iopoetry.org/archives/275)". consider this the first part of this 'verse's version of _The Dark World_ , since it got way too big in my gdocs. ( _forty-three pages what the fuck._ )
> 
> also, some lines may be familiar. they're lifted from _The Dark World_ and the _Star Wars_ movies, the latter of which figures prominently into Anakin's memory obviously.

Somewhere, in the dark crevices of the universe, something old and dark starts to wake up, for the first time in five thousand years.

It sees the light of the universe, far from the confines of its prison, and it _hates_ \--hates this light only the way something that understands only darkness hates everything that dares to be bright. It hates only the way something very old and very terrible hates something new and beautiful, the kind of hatred that swallows worlds and galaxies whole.

It sees one bright light, distinguishable from the rest of the universe’s for the darkness threaded into it, the darkness that could almost overwhelm that fragile but blazing light, given just a little push over the edge it’s teetering on.

It _knows_ that flickering light. It _knows_ that creeping darkness.

The Aether wakes from its slumber and thinks, _you--Skywalker, Vader, Foster, knight and monster._

_You’ll do just fine._

\--

“Dr. Foster?”

John blinks awake, looks around at the restaurant, and huffs out a breath when he sees Darcy’s new intern, drumming her fingers on the table to catch his attention, her blue-and-white hair bound up in three braids. “You’re not my date,” he says. “You’re--Ashley, right? Sorry, I’m shit at names.”

“Ew, _no_ ,” she says. “And--yeah. Yeah, it’s Ashley.” She musters a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Then again, she’d said John had reminded her of someone. He doesn’t really want to ask who it is, but he figures whoever it is, they broke her heart pretty badly. “You might want to see this.”

“See what?” he asks.

She opens her messenger bag, rummages around and pulls out a small, rectangular beeping device--Selvig’s old Geiger counter, he realizes quickly, only modified and streamlined, clearly by the woman who’s just interrupted his reverie. And also _beeping._

“What the hell,” he says, grabbing hold of the device and examining it. It can’t possibly be working, this is _London_ \--there’s nothing here that could trigger readings so high. "This thing's broken."

“That’s what I said,” says Ashley.

John bangs the device against the table.

“That’s what I _did_.”

“Did you open it up and get a better look?” he says. “Also, nice work, if I wasn’t broke I’d give you a raise right about now.”

“Thanks, I guess,” says Ashley, dryly. “And yeah, I did that too, _and_ put everything back where I found it.”

John runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t seen anything like this before,” he says, “except for in--” He stops, stares at the screen of the Geiger counter as it dawns on him. “No,” he says. “No fucking way.”

“What?” says Ashley.

John looks up at the doors. It’s been twenty minutes, and his date hasn’t arrived yet. Probably she never will, so he doesn’t feel too guilty about calling a waiter over and asking for a pen. “The last time I saw readings like this was in New Mexico, years ago,” he says to Ashley, careful not to tear the napkin as he writes, _sorry I left, friend had an emergency_. “You know that incident with Thor?”

“Yeah, he had a fight that leveled a small town,” says Ashley, with some disdain.

“Okay,” says John, defensively, “I was there, and one: Thor didn’t actually do much in the way of leveling, that was all on the giant robot thing, two: we evacuated everyone beforehand, and three: it wasn’t even _a_ fight.”

“You were there?” says Ashley, leaning on his shoulder. “Also, that’s kind of mean.”

“I’ve been waiting for this Burtoni lady for twenty minutes, I don’t think she’ll even show up at all,” he says, stuffing the Geiger counter into his pocket. “And yeah, I was there. Despite the sand and, uh, the giant robot destroying the town near the end, it wasn’t too bad.”

“What,” says Ashley, with a smile, “you don’t like sand?”

“I hate it,” says John, honestly, as he stands up. “It’s course, it’s rough, it’s _irritating_ , and it gets _everywhere_ , it’s a bitch to clean out of my arm.”

Ashley gives a snort of laughter, says, “Aww, but it’s so relaxing!”

“I can fire your ass right here and right now,” says John, striding out of the restaurant with Ashley falling into step behind him. “I could.”

“But you won’t,” says Ashley, “because technically, I’m Darcy’s intern, not yours, and you’d need to talk to her. And I don’t think she’d let you fire me.” She quickens her pace to surpass him, spinning on her heel and walking backwards to keep up the conversation. “Besides, Dr. Foster, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

John sighs, as they reach the car parked on the curb. It’s a tiny little thing, can barely fit four people of average size, let alone someone of John or Ashley’s height--the girl is _tall_ , about two inches taller than he is, and he’s not exactly _tiny_ \--but it’s the cheapest rental any of them could find. He opens the door first, to let her into the passenger seat, before he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Speaking of Darcy, where is she?” he asks. “Why’d she send you?”

“She went on a date,” says Ashley. “They’re at, uh, Bob Bob Ricard, at Upper James Street-- _holy shit_ , Dr. Foster, watch where you’re going!”

“I’m still learning how to drive in London,” says John, tersely.

“Look, why don’t I take over--"

“Upper James Street,” says John, eyeing the signs and swerving wildly away from another car. “That’s not far from here, right?”

Ashley sighs. “It’s about fifteen minutes, yeah,” she says.

“Great,” says John, “I’ll do it in ten.”

\--

The text comes first.

 _here at bob bob ricard pack your stuff we’re doing SCIENCE,_ it reads. Darcy huffs out a breath, looks from the menu--full of caviar and salmon and other super-expensive food--then up at her date Ian.

“Something up?” he asks.

“Yeah, something just came up,” she says, picking up her bag. She doesn’t feel too bad about ditching, it’s not like she can actually _afford_ half the stuff. “Sorry, Ian, gotta go--my boss just called me to work.”

“I thought you said this was your day off?” says Ian, as Darcy stands, snatching up a breadstick and munching on it as she hoists her bag up onto her shoulder.

“It’s been canceled,” says Darcy, pecking Ian on the forehead. “You’re a pretty good guy, though. See you around?”

Ian sighs, says, “I’m leaving for Lisbon tomorrow.”

“Oh,” says Darcy. “Okay. Call me back?”

“When I can,” says Ian, picking his stuff up too. “Thanks, though. It’s been a fun few days.”

Because she’s a nice girl and she feels kind of terrible for ditching their date, Darcy holds the door open for him. He shoots her a grateful, sad smile, and walks away.

She waits until he turns the corner, disappearing out of sight, then strides out and waves to John, parked on the curb. “Hey, Doc!” she says, walking up to the tiny car. “You finally mastered driving in London! I’m so proud of you.”

“No he has not,” says Ashley, flatly.

“We were pressed for time,” says John. “Hey, Darce. Sorry about your date.”

“It was kinda boring anyway,” says Darcy, with a shrug. “Did you look at your equipment? _Finally._ They’ve been going nuts all day, I’m betting this is what Erik was going on about over the phone.”

“It hasn’t been that long, you asshat,” John huffs, then opens the car door. “Get in, loser,” he says, “we’re going to do science.”

“I knew making you watch _Mean Girls_ with me was a good idea,” says Darcy, climbing into the passenger seat and shutting the door, then pulling out a map of London from her bag. “One day, I’m gonna make you watch _Star Wars_ with me. So where are we going?"

“Back to my apartment, and haha, no, that’s six films last I heard,” says John, starting the car and taking off in his usual haphazard way, Darcy is _so_ glad she’s wearing a seatbelt because good _god_ , John, what in the _hell_. “I’ve got too much on my plate to set aside the time to marathon _six movies_ , Darcy. Anyway, we need to triangulate a possible location for the phenomenon--”

“Oh, hey,” says Ashley, sticking her head in between the two of them, “the kid I used to babysit just texted me.”

“And that matters why?” John asks.

“Because she’s saying she found a floating truck in an abandoned warehouse near the Thames,” says Ashley.

John nearly crashes the car, swerving out of the way of a lamp post just in time. “No,” he says. “No _way_ \--”

“I’m gonna call Erik,” says Darcy, pulling her phone out of her pocket and shoving the map at Ashley, who shoves it back at her and pulls out a GPS in answer. “He’s gonna _love_ this.”

“Okay, turn right,” says Ashley.

“I tried calling him yesterday,” says John, swerving wildly right. Darcy gives a yelp when her head hits the safety glass, her phone nearly falling from her grip. “He didn’t answer, like he hasn’t been answering for _days_ , the ass--”

“I said _turn right_ ,” hisses Ashley, “not _swerve right and smash into a wall_!”

\--

_You’ve reached Erik Selvig. Leave a message after the beep._

“Hey, Erik! It’s Darcy. Again. Me and John are checking out this floating truck near the Thames, you’re missing out on _all_ of the fun. Where are you, anyway? It’s kinda a dick move to call us all the way out here for something big and then not even bother _answering_ , come on.”

\--

“I’m here at Stonehenge for what has been an interesting unfolding of events today…”

\--

“I like this new intern of yours, Darce,” says Anakin, as Ahsoka crouches down to start picking the lock on the gates leading to the warehouse’s parking lot, and to where Delilah “Del” Riverton is currently observing a truck weighing thirty-three thousand pounds floating in mid-air. “Any chance I can keep her?”

“Nope, she’s mine,” says Darcy. “Hey, any chance you can hotwire a car, Ashley?”

“Sure, but you’d have to pay me first,” Ahsoka shoots back.

Anakin laughs, the kind of laugh Ahsoka’s not heard out of him in years. She hasn’t heard his voice in _years_ , hasn’t ever heard him this cheerful--maybe ever. She hasn’t seen him this happy, this settled in his own skin. She knows that if she looks in the Force, he’ll be a blazing star, just like he used to be, instead of that black hole of darkness that Vader had been, trying to snuff out all the light inside of him.

She knows that if she looks, the frayed remains of their bond will flicker between them. She could almost reach out--

\--she doesn’t.

Anakin’s settled, content in a way she’s never seen from him. He’s smiling, joking, laughing easier, pulling Darcy into a headlock and knuckling the top of her head, like an older brother would to his sister. He’s content, and all that contentment cost him was his past.

Ahsoka’s happy for him. Truly, she is. Considering what lies in his past, it’s probably best for everyone if Anakin only ever thinks of himself as Dr. John Foster. She’s not--She’s not going to disturb that, no matter how much she missed him. No matter how much she _misses_ him, even though he’s standing just behind her, joking with Darcy about _Legally Blonde_ , the bend-and-snap, missing their chances to get into Harvard Law.

But she’s not going to lie to herself either, and tell herself that it’s fine, that he looks at her and doesn’t see his padawan, just some girl his intern hired from a bar after some flirting. It breaks her heart, that he doesn’t recognize her, that he doesn’t remember anything.

It breaks her heart, but she musters up a smile when the lock opens anyway, says, “Done! Feel free to shower me in money any time soon.”

“I have a Starbucks gift card,” says Darcy.

“I have Chinese leftovers,” says Anakin.

“I’ll take either one,” says Ahsoka, kicking the gates in.

Anakin makes a face. “You don’t have to be dramatic about it,” he says, which is probably the most ridiculous and hypocritical thing he has ever said to her, up to and including all the talk about focus when she’d crushed on Lux Bonteri. “Okay, get back in the car, I’m not leaving it out here. This thing’s a rental.”

“You weren’t worried about it when you nearly smashed it into a wall,” says Ahsoka.

“Because I’m great at not smashing cars into walls, Ashley,” says Anakin, grinning at her over the roof of the car before they climb inside. Almost like the old days. She misses him all the more, then. “Text your friend, ask her where she is. Also, what’s a fifteen-year-old doing on her own trespassing on private property?”

“Rich, coming from you, Doc,” Darcy interjects from the front seat. “You’re the one trespassing on private property too, and unlike them, you’re not fifteen.”

 _we’re here where are you?_ Ahsoka texts, as Anakin drives them up to the shadow of a tower of crates. Something in her gut churns, unpleasantly, the closer they get to the phenomenon going on here.

 _inside warehouse,_ is Del’s next text back.

 _be careful we’re coming,_ she texts, an ugly feeling churning in her gut, calling her attention away from the excitement of coming here, finding something impossible. _i’m bringing anakin with me, you ok with that? i promise he’s harmless._

 _ok._ Then another text, on its heels: _i trust u but i dont trust him. ill keep an eye on him._

Which is really more than Ahsoka thought she’d get out of Del, who’s never quite told her the details about how Vader had found her. _that’s all i ask,_ she texts back, and looks up at Anakin.

“She says they’re inside the warehouse,” she says, as Anakin kills the engine. He turns his head to look at her, his eyes blue as the sky above them. The last time she’d seen him, they’d glowed red.

“Okay, good,” says Anakin, opening the door. “Darcy, you’re in charge of the phase meter.”

“The toaster-looking thing?” says Darcy. “Okay.” She turns to Ahsoka and says, “You carry the phase meter. It’s the toaster-looking thing.”

“I know what a phase meter looks like, Darcy,” says Ahsoka, but she lifts the phase meter up anyway, and notes how Darcy’s very nice brown eyes follow her arms, the way she bites absently at her lower lip.

Huh.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she says to Darcy.

“Come on, Ashley,” says Darcy, with a carefree grin. “There’s nothing to worry about."

\--

_I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want, so tell me what you want, what you really really want--_

“Really, Darcy?”

“An renowned astrophysicist with frequently-cited papers like yours according to Google Scholar should be able to change his own ringtone, John.”

“And you’re calling me why?”

“Didn’t wanna shout.”

“Hey, guys, come on, Del says it’s this way.”

\--

There’s a floating truck.

There is a truck that _should_ weigh about 33,000 pounds, floating in the air like it weighs less than a feather. Maybe even less, because feathers _fall_ , and the truck is just hovering there, upside down now that one of the kids has, with very little effort, set it to slowly spinning in the air.

“My god,” John says, slowly circling around the truck. “And you found it like that?”

“Yeah,” says Del, a young girl of maybe fifteen or so, eyeing him with some wariness. He’s not sure why, exactly, but something about how she watches him, suspicious, makes him feel uneasy, guilty. For what, he wonders.

“ _Cool_ ,” Darcy whispers, drawing closer to poke the truck. It moves slightly, the whole giant vehicle swaying after that one feather-light touch. It should be impossible, and yet, here it is. “Hey, Doc, I dare you to lift it like Captain America.”

“I’m not that tough,” says John.

Ashley snorts out a laugh, covers it with a cough. “And you didn’t see anything around here that could cause it?” she asks.

“What could?” says one of the other kids, a young boy just a hair taller than Del. “Because we looked, and we didn’t find anything.”

“‘Cept this thing on the staircase!” another boy pipes up. “Like in _Portal_ , y’know? Only without the portal gun.”

“Show me,” says John, and he falls in step behind the pack of kids, lets them lead him and Darcy and Ashley up a winding staircase. One of the kids is faster than the others, races up the steps with a discarded bottle and an excited grin, while Del stays behind, her eyes on John as if she’s worried he might do something to her or her friends.

Which is weird, to say the least. But John can’t really blame her, he’s a tall, intimidating guy and she’s, what, fifteen, sixteen? He’d be more surprised if she _wasn’t_ worried.

“Watch this,” says the boy, holding a bottle out.

He lets go, and the bottle falls.

It doesn’t hit the ground.

“Holy shit,” says Darcy, eyes growing wide, “where’d it go?”

Del points up.

John glances up at almost the same time as Ashley does, just a fraction of a second before the bottle falls through again, this time from the _sky_. It disappears again, just before it hits the ground, falling through the sky again, doing it twice before Del catches it in her hand, grins up at Ashley.

“That’s incredible,” says John, then he turns around to grab an empty Coke can. Hypothetical explanations are already bouncing around in his head--electron diffusion region, maybe, or an Ellis drainhole, or--

He drops the can off the railing, then looks up.

“Where’d it go?” he asks.

Del shrugs. “Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t,” she says.

“So cool,” says Darcy, nudging John’s side with her elbow. “Hey, John, gimme your shoe. I wanna throw something.”

“How often do they come back, exactly?” says John, leaning on the railing and ignoring Darcy’s plea, because he _needs_ these shoes, dammit. “Could you estimate? Does--Does weight or mass have anything to do with it? Have you tried something considerably heavier than a bottle, like a--a book, or something?”

“I did,” volunteers the boy who’d raced ahead of them. “I threw my older sister’s copy of _Twilight_ in. It didn’t come back.”

“I’m still not sure that’s a loss,” says the other boy, with a huff of laughter. “No matter what your sister says about it.”

“We don’t really know,” says Del, blinking at him, surprised. “We only just found it.”

“Ashley, gimme your shoe,” says Darcy, nudging Ashley’s side. “Or your bag. I wanna do the thing too.”

“I’m not giving you my shoe,” says Ashley, flatly. “ _Or_ my bag. I need them both.”

John looks down at the ground, at the scattered debris lying around, then up at the skies. He almost considers hopping off the railing himself, just to see, but decides against it when he hears the phase meter beeping.

“Here, lemme get that,” he says, and Ashley holds out the device that Darcy’s so kindly referred to as a “toaster-looking thing”--it’s actually his old toaster, mostly, sort of, repurposed after it broke down on him at last.

He takes the phase meter from it, knocks it on the railing twice just to make sure its beeping is legitimate, along with the readings it’s displaying.

“I haven’t seen readings like this since--” he starts, then stops.

“New Mexico?” says Darcy.

Something tugs at the corner of his consciousness. “I’ve got to check it out,” he says, and runs off.

\--

“Oh, shit.”

“...those were the car keys, weren’t they.”

“In my defense, you didn’t give me your shoe.”

\--

The Aether catches a scent in the air--the scent of light, threaded with darkness. Skywalker, it knows immediately, in almost the same way ancient, semi-sentient entities made of darkness and hatred know something molded in the shape of its own kind almost intimately.

Skywalker is near, teetering on the edge. All he needs is a push.

It _sings_ to him like a siren, reaches tendrils of almost-thought across the universe to brush against his mind. _Let me look at you,_ it whispers, in a language that isn’t a language that no ear could ever stand to hear, _my Chosen, my vessel, mine mine mine._

Skywalker steps closer.

It tugs him in the rest of the way through.

\--

“ _Fuck,_ ” says John, pushing himself up from his prone position on the floor. It’s not the warehouse floor anymore, that much is obvious enough--warehouses don’t tend to look like dark and dreary caverns, even the abandoned ones at night.

And they definitely don’t have a pillar in the middle of them.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, curses quietly--no signal. He can’t call Darcy or Ashley from here, let them know what happened. He’ll just have to apologize to them later for disappearing, he figures.

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, looks back at the phase meter’s screen. The readings are spiking now, beyond anything John’s ever seen before, inside or outside of New Mexico. And New Mexico had been _insanely_ high, this is--this is something else entirely.

Under ordinary circumstances, he’d be excited. He kind of is, still, but he stuffs the meter into his pocket and stares at the pillar.

But there’s something else besides the usual excitement, the scientist’s curiosity. There’s a dread building against his usual desire to go and explore everything around him, building in his gut, twisting around his insides, whispering _run run run_. His gut instinct, the one that’s never steered him wrong but keeps steering him into trouble, is screaming at him, _danger danger run run **run**_ \--

He steps away from the pillar and nearly loses his balance, tripping on a rock and nearly going over the edge. _Nearly_ \--he grabs hold of the edge just in time, cursing wildly at the pain that shoots through his palm, and pulls himself up.

Once he’s sure he’s safe, he looks over the edge.

Okay. Running is not an option. _Falling_ is not an option either. He stumbles back, sits down, and tries to _breathe_ , shaking all over, heart beating fast against his chest as he curls up, hugging his knees. It hurts, he realizes, as if everything inside him is suddenly too big for his skin to contain., and something rises in his throat--not bile, probably, but whatever it is it’s setting his gag reflex off.

Panic attack. Great. Of all the places to have a panic attack, it had to be _here_. What if he doesn’t get out of here, what if he can’t calm down, oh god what if he _dies_ here, he doesn’t want to die here, in some cavern in the middle of god knows where, he still has so much work to do--Darcy and Selvig, Jesus fuck, what’s going to happen to them what’s going to happen to him _what’s going to happen_ \--

Okay. Okay, okay. This is a panic attack, he’s had them before, he just has to breathe. He just has to get control over his breathing, and he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.

He has to be.

\--

“Shit,” says Darcy, in the parking lot. “It’s been three hours, where is he?”

Ahsoka checks, briefly, on Anakin’s Force presence. It’s still burning bright, and the thought of it calms her for a moment, even with the man himself missing in action. “We need to sweep the area,” she says, determinedly.

“We’ve done that twice,” says Del. Her face is scrunched up, and she’s stepped closer to her two friends, as if to protect them, in case a monster wearing Anakin Skywalker’s face steps into view, ready to slaughter. “He’s nowhere here.”

“He can’t have gone far,” says Darcy. “This is John Foster, he likes discovering what’s up with something. Chances are he probably wandered off somewhere nearby and is pretending he can Force-lift stuff.”

 _He can, he just doesn’t know it,_ Ahsoka doesn’t say. “Okay,” she says instead, “so we do a perimeter check. Darcy can take the guys, I’ll go with Del, we’ll meet back up here. Hopefully with Dr. Foster in tow.”

“I don’t think we’ll find him,” says Del.

“We will,” says Ahsoka, with desperate conviction. Anakin’s okay. He has to be. “Okay, everyone fan out. Let’s get moving.”

\--

It takes a few minutes, but eventually John’s--a little bit calmer, at least. He doesn’t feel like his insides are going to explode, and his thoughts are a lot less rapid now. He takes a few more minutes just to breathe in and out, but eventually his heart isn’t trying to hammer its way out of his chest anymore, his hands aren’t shaking, and he isn’t on his way to a full breakdown like in finals week. He’s still trapped in a cavern in fuck knows where, but he’s not going to die. He’s sure of that now.

He gets to his feet, slowly, steadily, then turns to look at the pillar he’d slid down against.

Now that he’s examining it in more depth, he can see it’s--not exactly a pillar, per se. Pillars hold things up, this thing is just standing there, like a post-modern statue or something, in the middle of a very familiar circle.

There’s a gap in the middle of the tower, and there’s something there that’s giving off a red, red glow. John circles the tower, slowly, taking stock of the cracks in the stone, the symbol under his feet, the building feeling of dread in his gut.

He crouches down, sees tendrils of--of black dust, glowing red, swirling around, enticingly. He reaches out his left hand--

\--

The Aether surges, suffocates the blazing star in the Force.

\--

The two slabs slam together, and John curses, shakes his left hand, now glowing an ominous red. It _burns_ , he realizes, worse than an itch, worse than accidentally touching an open stove, worse than a slight electrical burn, it’s like he held his hand out over an open fire and let it burn burn _burn_ \--

He has to--He has to get it off, rip it out, what just went into him what’s _happening_ \--

The darkness steals over him, and he collapses to the ground.

\--

“Or perhaps that is not the beauty you seek.”

Thor huffs out a breath. “How is he?”

Heimdall smiles. “He’s quite clever, your mortal,” he says. “Though he does not know it,” _as he does not know a great many things about himself,_ “he studies the Convergence as well. Even now--” He stops.

Anakin Skywalker’s presence in the universe, before so uncertain of its place and now so sure and bright, like a blazing supernova against the tapestry of the universe, has vanished, somehow. As if the man has simply winked out of existence.

Heimdall glances at Darcy Lewis, calling the city guards of London for help, at Ahsoka Tano, frantic with worry over her former master’s sudden disappearance in the Force. The man is not dead, Heimdall is sure of that.

Which leaves a disquieting thought-- _has he remembered how to hide?_

“What’s wrong?” Thor asks.

Heimdall exhales. “I can’t see him,” he says.

\--

John wakes up on the warehouse floor.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

A brick falls to the ground. The same brick the kids were tossing into the portal earlier, he’s pretty sure. He gets to his feet, checks the phase meter, and sighs.

Boy, oh, boy, Darcy’s going to be _pissed_.

\--

“John!” calls Darcy, as the officer’s taking a statement from Ashley. The kids have left now, Del taking her younger friends with her, and John’s been missing for five hours when he emerges from the warehouse, stopping and staring at horror at the police force that’s somehow swarmed the area. “Doc, where the hell have you _been_ \--”

“You called the police!” says John.

“Uh, yeah,” says Darcy. “What was I supposed to do?”

“ _Why_ did you call the police?” John snaps.

“I was freaking out!” says Darcy. “You were gone, we couldn’t find you--”

“You call the cops, they call the feds,” says John, waving his phase meter around at the police officers milling around the place, “then the feds call SHIELD and the next thing you know, they’re going to be turning the place into the next Area 51!”

Darcy huffs out a breath. “John,” she starts.

“We had a stable gravitational anomaly! We had unimpeded access! The oldest competition we had was _fifteen_ , for Christ’s sakes--”

“John,” Darcy interrupts, grabbing hold of his phase meter, “you were gone. For _five hours._ ”

John stares at her, jaw dropping. “What?” he says. “It didn’t--I was only gone for maybe twenty minutes, at most. Five hours--” He stops, shakes his head. “My panic attacks don’t last _five hours_ ,” he says, voice raw.

“You had a panic attack?” says Darcy. “Oh, crap, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says John, running a hand through his hair. “Shaken, but fine.”

“The _fuck_ is this weather,” a nearby police officer shouts, and Darcy looks around and sees--rain. There’s rain all around them, the police officers and Ashley getting even more drenched, but somehow it’s not raining on them.

“That’s weird,” she says.

John looks away, eyes growing wide when he catches sight of something.

Darcy follows the line of his gaze, and makes a small strangled noise at the back of her throat.

“Holy shit,” she says, “is that your boyfriend?”

\--

“Aww, typical.”

“Hey, Darce, they wanna take your statement now--is that _Thor_?”

\--

The first thing John does in his first meeting with Thor in the two years since New Mexico is to punch him in the face.

“You asshole,” he says, as Thor rubs at his cheek, “you _left_! Where were you? Besides New York, I heard you were in New York, I _missed_ you by like twenty seconds--”

“You went to New York?” says Thor, surprised.

“Yeah, and broke my remaining arm for it,” John says. “Where were you?”

“Where were _you_?” Thor shoots back. “You had vanished, not even Heimdall could see you.”

John huffs out a breath, shakes his head. “I was right here where you left me,” he says. “I waited for you. I _looked_ for you, for fuck’s sake, and you--” He stops, lets out a breath, and lets himself fall forward onto Thor, knees buckling. “You were gone,” he says. “You said you’d come back.”

“I know,” says Thor, holding him close. He’s warm, even through the armor, and John breathes in his scent. “But the Bifrost was destroyed, the Nine Realms were in chaos. War was raging, marauders were pillaging and burning villages, and worse. I had to put an end to the slaughter before it could get worse. It took my father much and more to send me here, to get my brother and the Tesseract back, and my time then had been limited.”

“It’s not a bad excuse,” John admits, looking up at him. “You grew your hair out.”

“You did the same with yours,” says Thor, carding calloused fingers through John’s hair. He leans his head into the touch, chasing the warmth. “I tried to protect you from the dangers of my world, but--that didn’t work out as well as I had hoped. I was a fool.” He lets his hand rest on the back of John’s neck, sending sparks up and down John’s spine and to other interesting places. “I believe that fate brought us together,” says Thor, “and while I may not know what happened to you or where you were, but I do know this.”

“Know what,” John mumbles, leaning in closer.

“I know,” Thor murmurs.

“You do?” says John.

“Do what?” says Thor, leaning in closer as well, until the distance between their lips can be measured in centimeters.

“Hey, guys,” says Ashley, her jacket keeping her from getting soaked through completely, and John startles away from Thor.

“Who is this?” says Thor.

John gives a brief exhale through his nose, then turns to Thor and waves a hand at Ashley, who gives Thor a small smile. “Darcy’s intern,” he says. “Her name’s--”

“I’m Ashley,” she says. “Ashley Tanner.” She looks Thor up and down and says, “You’re a little bit shorter than I thought you would be, for an Avenger.”

“I had a late growth spurt,” says Thor, with a shrug. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tanner.”

“Good to meet you too, Thor,” says Ashley. “But, uh, the rest of us didn’t actually bring a change of clothes, so--”

“Oh,” says Thor, looking up. “That can be easily resolved.” The rain stops, right on the heels of his words, and John rocks back on his heels, gives Ashley a smug grin. “But you did interrupt us at an inopportune moment, my lady.”

“He means we were in the middle of something,” says John.

“I noticed,” says Ashley, desert-dry, giving John a _look_. “But we’re also in the middle of getting arrested, so.”

“Wait,” says John, “what?”

\--

Ahsoka hangs back as Anakin charges forward, shouting at a constable. Of all the things she figured he’d be doing, bedding an Avenger’s definitely not one of them, and certainly not _Thor_ , of all people. Then again, it explains his defensiveness over New Mexico.

“How long have you been Darcy’s apprentice?” says Thor.

Ahsoka huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. “I’m not her apprentice, I’m her intern,” she says. “There’s a difference.” Besides, she hasn’t been anyone’s apprentice in a long, long time.

“Darcy’s intern, then,” Thor corrects.

“A few days, give or take,” says Ahsoka.

“Strange,” he says. “You look at John as though you’ve known him for longer.”

Damn, the man’s perceptive. Ahsoka shrugs, looks back at Anakin. “I have,” she says, quiet, “and I haven’t. Both are true, from certain points of view.” She hasn’t known John Foster very long, but she knows Anakin Skywalker well. Knew him well. Or she thought she did. “How true is debatable,” she admits, after a moment’s reflection.

“Will you tell him?” says Thor, looking at her.

Ahsoka shakes her head. “Some things might best be left forgotten,” she says, before her gaze cuts to Darcy. “Oh, boy, they’re definitely arresting us. Can you hold my jacket for me?”

“Certainly,” says Thor, and she pushes her jacket into his hands before she marches up to the officers who’ve shoved Darcy against the rental.

“Hey!” she says. “Hey, back off--”

“Ashley, no, _bad idea_ \--”

“You were trespassing,” says a police officer, roughly grabbing hold of her arm, “so you’ll have to come with us--”

“You can’t just _shove somebody_ up against a _car_ ,” snaps Ahsoka, yanking her arm out of the man’s grip. “We’ll come quietly, you don’t have to treat us roughly--”

The Force gives her a moment’s warning first, and she quickly sidesteps another officer, attempting to grab her and force her up against the rental along with Darcy. “I said _we’ll come quietly_ ,” she says, “that doesn’t give you the right to use force--”

Someone manages to grab hold of her arm, bending it back behind her.

At the same time, Anakin glances at her and says, eyes suddenly glowing, “I asked you to let them _go_ \--”

\--

Something explodes out from him, red dust lashing out like a whip and throwing everyone--including John himself--to the ground.

\--

“Place your hands on your head and _step back_ \--”

“This man is unwell,” says Thor, helping John up to his feet. His eyes are blue again, but for a moment there, for the briefest of moments before _something_ had exploded out of him, they’d glowed blood-red.

“He’s dangerous,” says the guard, keeping his distance.

Thor looks at him, at this terrified man, watching John as though the man’s a bomb about to explode, and says, “So am _I_.”

He looks at John, who’s leaning on him now for support. There’s nothing dangerous about him, except whatever’s happening to him now. He pulls him in closer, says, “Hold on to me.”

“Wait,” says John, “I--what? Thor, what are you _planning_ \--”

He looks up at the skies and nods.

\--

Heimdall sighs.

He slides the sword in.

\--

Ahsoka steps into the circle, and looks around.

“Yeah,” she says, to the gathered crowd of police officers all looking at her and Darcy, a tale spinning together in her head. “So, we’re friends with an actual Avenger. I think it’d be best if we all just agreed to let each other go our separate ways.”

The constable from before, the one who’d called Anakin _dangerous_ , gulps.

“Also, I’m with SHIELD,” says Darcy, hastily, as though she's just come up with the excuse and is desperate enough to use it. “And if you don’t believe me I will call my boss, I _will_.”

“Where’s your identification?” shouts another cop.

“I’m undercover! I don’t need no stinking identification!” yells Darcy. It’s a bad bluff, all things considered, but it’s easy enough for Ahsoka to nudge the cops’ thoughts towards agreeing with Darcy’s lies--and they are _definitely_ lies, because SHIELD’s a lot more thorough than just sending a scientist and two interns to investigate an anomaly.

“You should probably let us go now,” says Ahsoka, mildly.

They let them walk out of the parking lot.

\--

John stumbles out of the--the _wormhole_ , holy shit, he just went through a _traversable wormhole_. Without _dying_ , which is kind of an achievement in itself already. He bounces on his feet, spins on his heel, trying to take in everything and wishing he’d brought his camera with him, instead of leaving it at his apartment like a dumbass.

“We have to go through that again,” he says to Thor, then turns to see a man, clad in golden armor, watching him with a suspicious eye. “Uh, hi,” he says.

“Hello,” says the man.

“John Foster,” says Thor, stepping up, “this is Heimdall. Heimdall--I don’t need to introduce you.”

“No,” says Heimdall, shortly. Something about his golden gaze makes John feel very, very small, and very, very exposed, as if Heimdall’s seen even things John himself doesn’t know. It’s likely he does, considering the general state of John’s memory. “Welcome to Asgard, my lord. You’ll want to watch your step.”

“Ohhhh- _kay_ ,” says John. “I’ll do that.”

Thor grins, gives Heimdall a nod, before he sneaks his hand into John’s to tug him along. “I promised to show you the bridge that we spoke of, back when we first met,” he says. “Consider it an apology for how long it took for us to meet again.”

And so they step out onto the Rainbow Bridge--which is _definitely_ a bridge, wide enough to fit maybe four or five men on horseback, side by side. There’s no railings, which is terrifying, to say the least, because if John looks over the sides of the bridge there’s a very long drop into a very deep ocean, and perhaps the vacuum of space. 

Anyway: The bridge beneath them shimmers with a thousand colors, the sunshine glimmering off the surface, refracted into rainbows under their feet.

“I know at least one architect who would cream themselves over this,” he says, as Thor leads him along. “And I definitely know Darcy would try to slide down this thing. It’s got the right surface.”

“I shall be sure to let her know,” says Thor. “We should get you to the healers first, and I can find a spare room for you to stay in. But after that, if you want, I can give you a guided tour of the city.”

“Fuck yeah,” John breathes, and looks up at the spires of Asgard, at the vehicles floating in and around--

(-- _he steps off onto the landing pad, looks around him to find a hundred speeders zooming past, one day he might_ \--)

John stumbles. Thor catches him, steadies him.

“We’re getting you to the healers now,” he says, worried.

“Okay,” says John, squinting up at the spires of Asgard. It’s strange, he thinks. For a moment, he’d seen another city, with flying cars and alien life. For a moment, it had been as if he’d _remembered_ something.

Which is just ridiculous.

Right?

\--

“Hey, Doc, it’s Darcy again, where are you?”

“I wouldn’t expect him to be able to answer,” says Ashley, scrolling through the news feed on her phone, “seeing as the last time we saw him, he was kind of transported to another world entirely.”

“How would you know that?” says Darcy, cutting off the call and putting her phone in her pocket.

“Sci-fi,” says Ashley, looking very interested in her phone.

“Uh-huh,” says Darcy, skeptical. “Okay, I’m gonna try to call Erik. Again. At least he should know Doc’s gone missing.”

Ashley exhales, then sets her phone down on her chest, her eyes growing distant. After a moment, they refocus, and her lips press into a thin line of worry. “Do we know anyone else we can talk to?” she says.

“I don’t have SHIELD on speed dial, if that’s what you’re asking after,” says Darcy. “I was just bluffing back there.”

“Pretty good bluff,” says Ashley. Her phone beeps, and she sighs, holding it up to squint at the screen. “I gotta go,” she says, “I’ve got a friend who needs to break into their apartment. Again.”

“All right,” says Darcy. Then: “This is probably a really bad time, but when we get Doc back, you wanna go out for coffee with me? I’ll pay.”

Ashley blinks at her, and for a second Darcy’s a little afraid she’ll say no. Then a corner of her mouth turns up, and she says, “Sure. I’d love some good coffee.”

“The coffeemaker’s general shittiness is not my fault,” huffs Darcy, as Ashley steps out the door. “Take it up with Doc, wherever he is.”

\--

“What’s that?”

“Be still,” says the healer, a woman with her hair pinned in a severe bun. Thor stands out of the way of their workings, watching as the Soul Forge does its work, as a near-perfect copy of John’s body forms into existence just above the man himself.

There’s something wrong there, already--something dark and terrible and red lurking about in John’s bloodstream, but there’s something else as well--pinpricks of bright light scattered throughout his body, like glittering starlight against the darkness of the night sky, swallowed by dark clouds.

It’s alarming, to say the least.

“This is not of Earth,” he says, quiet, to one of the other healers, a younger woman staring worriedly down at John. “What is it?”

“We do not know,” she says. “But this amount of energy surging within him--not even one with his power can survive this much energy.”

Thor glances at her, then back at John, needling the older healers with questions about quantum field generators.

“With his power?” he says, lowering his voice.

“He does not know it,” says the healer, “but he holds great power within himself. It’s part of what’s keeping him alive right now--it’s trying to fight the infection, redirecting it to somewhere less important, but it’s only a matter of time till even that runs out.” She breathes out, looks up at Thor, sorrow in her eyes. “You may need to say your goodbyes,” she says, before she turns away to join the other healers.

“My words are mere noises to you,” says his father as Thor watches, startling him out of his thoughts, “that you ignore them completely?”

“He’s ill,” says Thor, turning away as the Soul Forge dissipates, the near-perfect hologram compressing back into a ball and disappearing. John sits up, sweeps his dark hair up into a short tail, smiles charmingly. Thor’s heart flips, a little.

“He’s mortal,” says Odin, looking at John with--with _disdain_ , as if John is not worth the dirt on his shoes. “Illness is one of their defining traits, and this one in particular has a great many of them--none of them good.”

“I’m right here, you know,” says John, annoyed.

“I brought him here because we can help him,” says Thor. “There is something within him--”

“He does not belong here in Asgard,” says Odin, walking around the table, watching John with his one, suspicious eye, “any more than the lowest of criminals belongs at a feast for kings.”

“Okay, the streaking was _one time_ ,” says John, turning his head to glare at the _Allfather_ , Thor loves him but sometimes he cannot believe him, “and I only got arrested, what, twice? And once was because I helped your son, so a little _gratitude_ would be nice.” He pauses a moment, then looks at Thor and says, “That is your dad, right?”

“Yes,” Thor says, with a sigh, massaging his temples with his fingers. “That is my father.”

“And the King of Asgard, Protector of the Nine Realms,” says Odin. “You would do well not to cross me, _my lord_.”

There--that same title that Heimdall had used, in the same tone of suspicion. Thor steps forward, and says, “Father, you must understand--”

“It’s _Dr. Foster_ ,” says John, before, as an afterthought, adding, “Sir.”

“I understand that your love for this mortal has clouded your judgment,” says Odin, coldly, and Thor reels back. “And I know very well who you are-- _John Foster_.” Something about the way he says John’s name makes Thor wonder what, exactly, does he know--Odin has never been quite this cold towards visitors before, even mortal ones. Then again, it’s been a long, long time since a mortal last set foot in Asgard.

But he’s never been this cold to any visitor. The only times Thor has ever seen him this harsh were with--

“Did you tell your dad about me?” says John.

Thor shakes his head, then turns to his father and says, “He is not our prisoner, Father, there is something within him, something I’ve not seen before--”

“Midgard has its healers,” says Odin. “They’re called _doctors_. They are as qualified as our healers, and I am certain they can deal with it.” He turns to the guards and says, “Guards! Take John Foster back to Midgard--”

The guard steps forward, grabs John’s arm just as Thor says, urgently, “No, I would _not_ \--”

A flash of red, and red dust lashing out like a whip, before John collapses back onto the table, breathing heavily.

“--touch him,” Thor finishes, rushing forward to John’s side. His father joins him a moment later, running a hand down John’s flesh arm. “Are you all right?”

“Help me, Master,” John mumbles, blinking blearily up at Thor. His eyes, for a moment, glow a sinister red, before he blinks again, the red glow of his eyes fading back into their usual blue color. “Thor?”

“It’s impossible,” says Odin, and both Thor and John look down at John’s left arm, glowing red under Odin’s hand, ready to lash out again. “How did you find this?”

“The infection’s defending him,” says a healer.

“It’s defending itself,” says Thor. “It just also happens to be including its host, for the moment.” He won’t even think about how John had addressed him as _master_ , as if mistaking him for someone else, someone he must’ve known, once upon a time.

“Oh, great, because I always wanted to be that guy with the alien bursting out of his stomach,” John mutters. “Does anyone have some aspirin?”

“I may have some,” says Odin. “Come with me.”

\--

The Aether expected a fight. There is always a fight, when it comes to hosts, save for the willing ones like Malekith, like the Dark Elves, already steeped in darkness, already molded perfectly for the Aether--but usually those fights end in victory, in just a few days.

Skywalker, though.

Skywalker’s something else. Even unconscious, even unknowing, his defenses are formidable. Especially the one he’s somehow built up around his past, locked away in the recesses of his mind.

But there are cracks in his defenses, and the Aether knows how to wait. It knows how to erode. It knows how to seep in through the cracks and make them bigger, little by little, until the darkness breaks through all of Skywalker’s haphazardly constructed defenses.

Until the Aether has Skywalker, or until Malekith comes for the both of them. Whichever comes first.

\--

There’s a little café in Greenwich that’s been there since sometime during the mid-2000s, one that’s somehow quiet and not too popular amongst tourists, hidden as it is away from the hustle and bustle of the city around it, from the shops that have popped up on Greenwich Street and near the tube station. Students pride themselves on finding it, this cozy little shop where one can finally get some peace and quiet away from the worries of school, of finals.

Ahsoka finds it in about an hour and a half, catching a bus for much of the journey and then walking the rest of the way. It’s _tiny_ , the entrance to the stairway leading up to it trapped in between two much larger shops for clothes and books, respectively, and she hesitates a moment at the door.

Then she sighs and goes in and up a flight.

It’s small, cozy and homey--there’s a number of chairs and tables scattered around, even a plush couch, currently occupied by a student from the community college. Ahsoka weaves her way around the tables and the students, and sits down at the counter.

“How may I--” starts the owner, before he blinks at her. “Ahsoka?”

“Hello, Master Kenobi,” says Ahsoka, propping her hand up on her cheek. “It’s been a while.”

Obi-wan huffs out a breath. He’s a little older now than when Ahsoka saw him near the end of the Clone Wars, his copper hair shot through with grey at the temples. From what he’s told her, he’s usually much older than that, but whatever brought Anakin here and turned back the clock for him until he had most of his limbs and all of his hair back, whatever brought Ahsoka here and made her look more human? It’s done wonders for Obi-wan’s appearance as well.

“It’s only been two weeks,” says Obi-wan, setting her usual order on the counter. She slides a bill across to him, and he stuffs it into his pocket. “Run into Fury yet, by any chance?”

“Master Windu and I don’t exactly see eye to eye,” says Ahsoka. “You’re the one who’s got him on speed dial, not me.”

“Which doesn’t always help,” says Obi-wan. “He can be a bit secretive these days.”

“He’s a _spy_ , it comes with the territory,” says Ahsoka.

Obi-wan leans on the counter and says, “And you?”

“Secrets,” says Ahsoka, after a moment’s pause, “are a hard habit to break, when you get used to them.” She rips the packet of sugar open, dumps all of it into her latte and stirs with a teaspoon. “You felt that, right? With Anakin? You were pretty worried in your text.”

Obi-wan nods. “Yes,” he says, quiet. “Is he--”

“Well, apparently, he’s been hanging around Thor,” says Ahsoka. “Or at least they’ve known each other for some time. As far as I know, he had a hand in whatever happened in New Mexico.” She takes a sip of her coffee and says, “He’s still clueless. I don’t know _what_ happened, that he’s just--gone from the Force, but he’s okay.”

“Where is he now?”

Ahsoka exhales, looks Obi-wan in the eyes. “You’re not going to believe me,” she says.

“Ahsoka,” says Obi-wan, with a sigh, “we come from an entirely different universe from this one. We’ve both seen our fair share of unbelievable things. Give me the benefit of the doubt and tell me.”

“All right,” says Ahsoka, with a shrug. “Thor kinda took him off to Asgard.”

“ _What,_ ” says Obi-wan, incredulous.

\--

“Your dad’s kind of a dick,” says John, as he and Thor walk out onto the dais overlooking the courtyard. There’s a lot of people training now, swords clanging and staves whirling, laughter mixing in with battle cries. It’s--weirdly familiar, he thinks.

“He can be harsh, sometimes,” says Thor, “but he had no right to be harsh with you.”

“Eh, I can take it,” says John, leaning on the railing. “I mean, he didn’t menacingly clean a shotgun when I came over, so he’s not _that_ scary.”

“One day you must tell me that story,” says Thor, with a huff of laughter, leaning on the railing beside him, calloused fingers brushing against his, sending sparks up John’s arm. Or maybe that’s the ancient dark force slowly killing him from the inside out, but he likes Thor better, so. “I am sorry the reception has not been as warm as you deserve.”

“Like I said, I can take it,” says John, turning to Thor and carding his fingers through the man’s hair. “I mean, if you think I’m not too bad, then hey, I guess I’m not. Though some of them are kinda weird--do they usually greet people with _my lord_?”

“Sometimes,” says Thor, hand settling on the small of his back, tugging him just the slightest bit closer until the distance between their faces can be measured in centimeters. “Would you like to be?”

“Lord Foster, Consort to the Prince of Asgard,” John says, testing the title out on his tongue. “It’s a little strange.”

“Good strange or bad strange?”

“I’ll let you know,” says John, eyes fluttering closed and leaning in--

“John Foster!” calls another voice, and John breaks away from Thor, turns to see a woman with dark hair and a wide smile, and also two wooden staffs, one in each hand. “How long has it been?”

“You’re--” John starts, then he huffs out a breath. “Sif, right? Sorry, my memory is famously shitty. But, uh, it’s been two years since New Mexico.”

“Yes,” says Sif. “Thor told me you were a valuable help to him, when he attempted to take back Mjolnir when he first came to Midgard. He mentioned you’d come up with a detailed battle plan as though you were a seasoned commander.”

“Um,” says John, turning back to Thor. “Did you brag about me?”

“Somewhat,” Thor says.

John turns back to Sif, fixes a smile on his face and tries to squash down on the nervousness bubbling up inside him. “I don’t really know where it came from,” he says, tugging on his medical bracelet. “I don’t remember anything very well, it’s called total retrograde amnesia.”

“Oh,” says Sif, quiet. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“If I had a dime for every time somebody said that to me, I’d be richer than Tony Stark,” John mutters.

Sif raises an eyebrow and says, “Tony Stark--Thor’s mentioned him as well. The man of iron, did you call him?”

“Very rich, by Midgardian standards,” says Thor. “Sif, if I may interrupt, I’ve promised John a tour of Asgard--”

“It can wait,” says Sif, pushing a quarterstaff into John’s hands. “I wish to see how you fight,” she explains, leading him down to the courtyard proper. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to ask you, when last we met, and I’d rather not waste this opportunity now.”

“I don’t--” starts John, looking back between Thor and Sif, then out to the expectant stares from the courtyard’s current occupants. “I don’t really fight with these very often,” he says, lamely, holding the quarterstaff out. “I did once before, back in college, but that was a long time ago.”

“One of my teachers once told me,” says Sif, “that the mind forgets, but the body remembers.” She inclines her head, looks John up and down, as if calmly assessing him. “I think you’ll put up more of a fight than you think you will, Dr. Foster. And I’m willing to make a wager.”

“Don’t,” says Thor, off to the side. “The last time Sif wagered anything, she won, and the opponent had to walk on his hands for two days.”

“It built up your upper body strength, did it not?” says Sif with a teasing grin, before she turns back to John and the grin melts away into something more serious. “One round. If I win, Thor will have to buy me and the Warriors Three all our drinks for the next three months, and you will have to give us a guided tour of Midgard.”

“Earth-- _Midgard’s_ a big place, and travel can be expensive,” says John. “If you win, will you settle for being toured around a fraction of it?”

“That seems fair enough,” Sif concedes. “And if _you_ win, I will tell you a story--of how Thor lost his hammer and nearly had to marry someone to win it back.”

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” says Thor, horrified. “What happens if there is a draw? Surely there is a condition where I don’t suffer.”

“If there is a draw,” says Sif, “then you’ll have to buy us drinks _and_ let me tell your lover the story.” She spins the quarterstaff with a flourish, and says, “Come, John Foster. The first one to fall loses.”

John holds the staff ready, and says, “Okay. Go.”

\--

Sif very narrowly wins the first fight.

 _Very_ narrowly, because after the first few fumbling seconds, John Foster had managed to land a strike and almost corner her, raining blow after blow on her as he tried to wear down her defenses. She’s impressed--for someone who claims to have only had one class in fighting with a weapon, he fights as if he’s been trained his whole life, if with a different weapon.

He seems just as surprised as she is, too.

“I swear to god,” he says, falling onto the bench beside Thor, who is eyeing him with a betrayed look mixed with slight lust, “I have _no idea_ how I can do all that. I did a _backflip_ , that’s--I never learned to do that. I think? I’m pretty sure.”

“You fight as though you’ve fought all your life,” says Sif, sitting down next to him. “Though you haven’t fought in some time, or you’ve fallen out of practice--your reactions are delayed, you’re not as fast as you could be. Had you kept up, there’s a chance that you might’ve won.” She leans back on the heels of her palms, and says, “You also fight as though you’re used to a different weapon.”

“I’ve never actually used any,” says John, letting his head fall back against the wall. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, and Sif is certain this fight will lead to a sore day for him tomorrow, but all in all, she’d call it a good fight. “I don’t--at least I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Perhaps we can try again with a different weapon,” she suggests. “After a rest, of course.”

“Maybe later,” says John, giving Thor a soft smile. “I was promised a guided tour.”

“Mm, well, I keep my word, you’ll have your tour and more soon enough,” says Thor, smiling softly back as well, and Sif will not lie to herself--it breaks her heart, to see them both so happy in each other’s company. “But we will come visit again, Sif.”

“I’ll hold you both to that,” says Sif, putting aside her heartbreak to smile at the two. “And should you ever remember, John, you must tell me who taught you how to fight. I would love to spar with them sometime.”

“I make no promises,” says John. “If my memory was ever going to come back, it would’ve years ago.”

And she must admit, he has a point.

\--

(Sif swings the plastic sword, and Anakin ducks, rolling out of the way and sweeping her legs out from under her before she can recover her momentum, then pointing the plastic lightsaber at her throat and saying, “You are beaten.”

“Well-fought, Sif,” calls Hogun from the table, where he and Darcy have set themselves and Ahsoka up with snacks.

Sif huffs out a laugh, as Anakin pulls her up to her feet. She’s been coming down to Midgard regularly to spar with Anakin, along with the Warriors Three, two of whom are currently with Steve and Thor doing Force knows what. Hogun’s the only one left to watch the two of them essentially beating on each other with plastic toys on a rooftop in New York.

“You’ve improved,” she says, approvingly.

“I didn’t really want to lose to you all the time,” Anakin admits.

“Why couldn’t you have lost to her this time?” Darcy calls from the table. “I was gonna clean Ahsoka out! Now I owe her like thirty bucks.”

“Thanks, Skyguy!” Ahsoka shouts. “Better luck next time, Sif!”

“You’re welcome, Snips,” says Anakin, with a huff. Then he looks back at Sif and says, “Hey, one of these days, I’ll introduce you to my wife.”

“Your wife,” says Sif, raising a brow.

“Yeah, I didn’t know I had one too,” he says, the two of them walking up towards the table. “Padmé’s a good person, you’ll like her. You two can argue over monarchy and democracy, I know Darcy’s all but declared herself her apprentice now.”

“No offense,” says Darcy, as Anakin drops, exhausted, into a chair, “but your political views amount to sticking a strong person in charge and hoping they’re not secretly evil megalomaniacs.”

“I’ve learned since then,” Anakin says, as Hogun reaches over to swat away Darcy’s hand from the sandwiches and takes one for himself. “Right, Ahsoka? Back me up here.”

“I hate to break it to you, Anakin,” says Ahsoka, “but she’s got a point.”

“I _believed_ in you,” says Anakin, reaching over to snatch up her sandwich and getting a swat on the hand for it.)

\--

“Hey, Doc? It’s Darcy. _Again._ You’re probably not picking up, since you’re on like a completely different world, but you should probably pick up very, very soon, because I’m getting really worried about you. Even Ashley’s worried about you. Just--let us know you’re not dead, okay? It’s been a whole day.”

\--

“You knew I was in trouble when you came for me,” says John, the day after, dark circles under his eyes from the grand total of three hours of sleep he’d been able to get. He wouldn’t mind, is the thing, if it was just because of the fantastic sex, but the nightmares--

(--the boy, standing in front of him, no more than maybe nine, _there’s too many of them, what do we do_ \--

\-- _stop now, come back, I love you_ \--

\--another boy, clinging to a tower, staring at him with such anger, such shock, such horror, _I am your_ \--

\--fire creeping up the stumps of his limbs, creeping up his body, the smell of his own flesh cooking filling his nostrils, _I hate you I hate you I hate you_ \--)

\--might be more responsible for his sleepless night than the sex. He wonders if this is the Aether’s fault, if this ancient dark force lurking around in his body and killing him from the inside out is responsible for this sudden onslaught of nightmares and flashes of--of _something_.

He covers his mouth with his hand and stifles a yawn.

“Well,” Thor begins, as they stop near a railing overlooking a lake, the sunlight shining off the surface (she smiles and oh how it lights up her face how it brings out the brilliance of her eyes and she says _we used to lie out on the sand and let the sun dry us_ \--)

“John?”

John blinks, looks down at his hands on the railing, shaking, trembling. “Sorry,” he says. “I--I don’t know what came over me, I just--”

“It’s the Aether,” says Thor, worried. “John, it may be advancing at a faster rate.”

“No, I’m fine,” says John, breathing out and running a shaking hand through his hair. “Tired, probably. Where were we--how’d you find out I was in trouble?”

Thor sighs, then moves his hand closer to John’s left hand, the warmth centering him, grounding him out. “You had disappeared from Heimdall’s sight,” he explains again, and okay, this is a little more familiar. “You were no longer on Earth.”

“That can’t be--” John starts, before he stops. “Oh,” he says, the cavern coming back into the forefront of his mind.

“Oh, what?”

“There was a cavern,” he says. “With a monument, I guess--I’m pretty sure the Bifrost transported it there, for some reason. And there was the Aether in the middle of it, and the readings were spiking, and it was almost like it was calling to me.” He leans back, breathes out. “Shit,” he says, quiet.

“So Father was wrong,” says Thor, “when he said they’d destroyed the Aether.” He rubs his fingers along John’s, tracing the outline of his hand. “As near as I can tell, it must’ve called to you, because it wanted you to be its host.”

“Me?” says John. “There’s nothing all that special about me, it must’ve picked the wrong host.” He pulls himself up on top of the railing, clasps his hands together. “Where was that cavern? How is it possible?”

“You were on Earth,” says Thor, “and you weren’t.” He pulls himself up onto the railing as well, one hand resting on top of John’s clasped hands. “The Nine Realms travel within Yggdrasil, orbiting Midgard in much the same way as your planet orbits around the sun. Most of the time, they never quite align right.” He takes hold of John’s right hand, the one made of black and gold metal, hidden under a leather glove, and says, “But once every five thousand years, the worlds align perfectly, and we call this the Convergence.”

He unfolds their hands, turning his hand until his fingers are aligned with John’s. “During this time, the borders between worlds blur together, especially at certain points. It’s possible you found one of these points.”

“Lucky me,” says John, staring into Thor’s blue eyes.

“Very,” says Thor, staring into John’s. “Once the worlds pass out of alignment,” and he turns his hand until his fingers are no longer aligned with John’s, “then the connection is lost.”

Their hands clasp together. A moment later, John leans in and presses his lips against Thor’s, and feels warm, feels fireworks setting off in his stomach.

They break away.

“I like the way you explain things,” John murmurs.

“I like the way _you_ explain things as well,” Thor says. “Your passion is unmatched, when you’re explaining. Except perhaps by wildfire.”

“I hate fire,” says John, with a little snort of laughter, “so you’ll have to come up with another comparison.”

“It’s an apt one, though,” says Thor, “and I will not let your fire be quenched. I could not. I will find a way to save you, John, I swear I will.”

( _Love won’t save you, Padmé. Only my new powers will._ )

“At what cost?” says John, pressing a shaking hand to his forehead, inhaling, exhaling. _Breathe._ “Your father said there wasn’t any way to save me.”

( _I won’t lose you the way I lost my--_ )

“My father does not know everything,” says Thor, still soft, still kind, his eyes still blue. ( _Still?_ )

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” says a woman’s voice, and Thor hops off the railing, looking slightly guilty. John blinks at the two of them, Thor and this woman with fiery red hair and a kind smile, then slides off a second later, brushing the dust off the seat of his trousers. “What have I said about sitting on the railings, Thor?”

“Not to do it,” says Thor, looking down like a kid caught lying before he looks back up again. “But besides that--John, this is Frigga, Queen of Asgard and my mother. Mother, this is Dr. John Foster, of Midgard. He once attempted to help me reclaim Mjolnir, and now studies the Convergence.”

John fixes a smile on his face, then pulls his collar up to hide the bite marks from last night, hides his shaking hands in the folds of his tunic. A _tunic_ , he can’t believe it, wait until he tells Darcy or Selvig about this. “Ma’am,” he says, then, “I can see where Thor gets his charm from,” he adds, before he can stop himself.

Frigga actually laughs, a high, musical note of laughter. “I can see why he fell in love with you,” she says. “You’re a sincere man, Dr. Foster.”

“Mother,” Thor says, long-suffering.

“Um, thanks,” says John. “It’s John. Ma’am.”

“Then if we are to stand on familiarity, you may call me Frigga,” says Frigga. “I am sorry for how Odin treated you. He has his reasons, but they don’t justify his words.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ll be sure to tell Father that,” says Thor. “Maybe he’ll listen to your words through mine.”

“I’ve been treated worse,” says John, with a shrug. “He didn’t threaten to shoot me in the face, that was nice.” He looks at Frigga, who smiles calmly, serenely, at him. “You might be the first parent I’ve ever met who didn’t hate me for dating their kid,” he says.

“So long as you do not harm my son, I see no reason why you shouldn’t,” says Frigga. She steps closer, and says, softly, “May I see your hands?”

John glances up at Thor, who nods. Then he holds out both hands, flesh and metal, shaking like leaves. Frigga takes them in her warm, slender hands, and says, “You need not be afraid, John.”

“I might die,” he says.

“No you won’t,” says Thor.

“All right, so you have a reason to be somewhat afraid,” Frigga concedes. “But not of me.” She smiles at him, as if sharing a secret, and whispers, “I don’t bite.”

John breathes in, then out. His hands steady, and his smile melts into something more genuine, less fixed.

Then the sirens ring out, and John breaks away, turns to look at the palace, at the sudden rush of people hurrying past them--guards towards the palace, civilians away. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“The prison,” says Frigga.

Thor’s jaw tenses. “Loki,” he says, and John thinks of unstable portals opening in the sky above him, of Selvig in the hospital, talking about the Tesseract, about what it had shown him, about the things Loki had pulled from him.

“Go,” he says. “Be a hero.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Frigga promises.

Thor nods, and smiles wanly. Then he races forward, shucking off his cloak just as Mjolnir whizzes past John’s head, and jumps.

\--

Loki turns a page.

Something smacks against the spell of his cell. He glances up, rolls his eyes at the chaos unfurling just outside, then goes back to his book.

\--

A skirmish in the palace dungeons, some of the men had called it. Irregular, certainly, but prisoners have skirmishes down there all the time. Sif knows better than to call it such a puny thing--this is a riot, prisoners trying to escape from the dungeons. Considering how dangerous most of them are, she’s not about to let that happen.

She walks past John, standing beside Frigga, ramrod straight in the presence of the Allfather, shaking hands hidden in the folds of his tunic. As if trying to prove himself worthy, somehow, of the Allfather’s respect.

She looks away, and marches on with the rest of the men.

\--

Frigga steals a sword right out of the scabbard of one of the men marching past them, and says, “Listen to me now, John--on my signal, do everything I ask of you, no questions.”

“Got it, m--Frigga,” says John. There’s a headache building behind his eyes, and dread curling and panic rising in his gut, and his hands are shaking something fierce. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” he murmurs.

“We both do,” says Frigga. She leads him up a flight of stairs, down a corridor, nods to the guards on duty before she opens the doors. “I am sorry for the mess,” she says, gesturing to the opulent room that they step into, “I would have cleaned up, had I some warning this would happen.”

“What’s _this_?” says John.

“Hopefully,” says Frigga, “nothing more than a prison break.” She crosses her arms, glances out the balcony. “But this is something far more sinister than that, I’m afraid. It’s likely the prison break is no more than a smokescreen for something else, but _what_ , I’m not sure of.” She looks back at him and says, quiet, “Has the Aether shown you anything?”

John lets out a breath. “Stuff,” he says, quiet. “Familiar stuff, mostly. A woman that I loved, flying cars, a city much like Asgard, only built on top of itself over and over. A boy, maybe nine, asking me what to do, who I--”

(The sound of something igniting, the boy startling back, _do whatever is necessary_ \--)

He chokes. “Who I killed,” he whispers. “But--that’s all the Aether. I wouldn’t. I _wouldn’t_.”

Frigga breathes out, sets the stolen sword down on the bedside table. She sits down next to him, as he curls in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The Aether is good at creating visions,” she says, quiet, “but it cannot create _memories_. And you know what these are, John.”

“They aren’t,” says John, half-desperate, scrabbling at some scrap of--of rationality, because he wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. “I’m not--I don’t--I have my medical records, I have a passport, I’m from some small town in fucking _Illinois_ , I went to high school--I _wouldn’t_ , I could never have done anything like--like whatever the Aether’s showing me.”

“The Aether is an ancient power,” says Frigga, sadly, “and ancient powers do not tend to understand human concepts. Most likely, it’s found a way to try and keep you from fighting it, in the form of the past you’ve locked away.”

“I haven’t locked anything away,” says John.

“Unconsciously,” says Frigga. “You’re trying to protect yourself. I can hardly fault you for such a thing--you have done such terrible things, that it would be better to remain unaware of them.” She sighs, then takes his hand in hers, warm and slender. “At least it was. But you cannot lock them away forever.” She brushes a strand of hair behind his ear, says, “Search your feelings. You know that to be true.”

( _You’ve grown up so tall,_ she’d said, reaching her hand up to touch his cheek, smiling so kindly up at him, dying dying dying--)

“What,” says John, before he stops, swallows back the lump in his throat. “What do I do?” he says, lost and scared.

“Sit here,” she says, “while I get you a drink of water.” She steps away, and John huffs out a breath, curls in tighter into himself. _Search your feelings,_ she had said, so John breathes out and shuts his eyes.

 _Henceforth, you will be known as_ \--

\-- _bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness_ \--

\-- _I love_ \--

\-- _it seems, in your anger, you killed her_ \--

\-- _something wonderful has happened_ \--

\-- _I won’t leave you! Not this time_ \--

\-- _too dangerous to leave alive_ \--

\-- _he told me enough, he told me you killed him!_

“John,” says Frigga, and John opens his eyes. He’s slid down to the floor, he realizes, and she’s crouched down to his level, a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. She presses a glass of water into his hands, and he lifts it up to his lips and drinks the whole thing in one go, as though he hasn’t been able to drink it in years.

It tastes sweet, sweeter than honey.

“Are you all right?” she says. “I apologize if I pushed you.”

“No,” says John, “no, it’s--it’s okay, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He pushes a shaking hand through his hair, trying to breathe. “I just--have bits and pieces. They’re not coherent. I don’t even know if--” He stops, lets out a breath. “I don’t know if I want them to be real,” he says. “I like being from Illinois better, I think.”

“Just because you don’t want them to be real doesn’t mean they aren’t,” says Frigga, kind but sad. “All you can do is learn from them, and be a better person than what you remember.”

John exhales.

Frigga helps him up to his feet, and says, “Skywalker.”

“What?”

“Your mother’s name,” she says. “ _Your_ name.” She clasps his hands and says, “Hold on to that, John.”

 _Skywalker._ It’s a familiar name. “That’s from Darcy’s movies,” says John. “The one with-- _Star Wars_ , wasn’t it? That can’t be right.”

Frigga smiles. “Every story,” she says, “has a grain of truth within them.”

Something explodes, outside. John breaks away, rushes to the balcony to see dagger-shaped starfighters, rushing past the city’s limits, engaging in a dogfight with the guards’ own winged ships. “Shit,” he says.

“Remember what I said earlier?” says Frigga, standing beside him.

John nods.

“It’s time,” she says, grimly.

\--

“Erik! It’s Darcy. _Again_. Where are you? Thor took Doc to Asgard, and he hasn’t been answering his phone. You really, _really_ gotta call me back.”

Ahsoka sighs. That’s about the sixth time in two hours that Darcy’s called this Erik Selvig, and at this point she’s starting to think Selvig’s gone and lost his phone. She flips idly through the channels, landing on a movie channel showing Luke Skywalker, dueling his black-clad father on the second Death Star.

She changes the channel almost immediately, and blinks at the news item on the channel she lands on.

“--as a man stripped naked and terrorized tourists at the fampis monument,” the newscaster’s saying, as a shaky video plays, displaying a naked old man, his lower area pixelated out, running around scaring people. “Witnesses say that the streaker went up to Stonehenge with scientific equipment, bypassing the measures in place to keep the public at a distance, and, to the shock of tourists and security guards alike, proceeded to strip off all his clothes and brandish scientific equipment at onlookers, shouting that he was trying to save everyone--”

Ahsoka squints at the clip. It’s too shaky to make out, but she thinks this streaker is--

“Darcy,” she says, “you’re going to want to see this.”

“If _this_ is about how the parliament is totally not fucking over the people of Britain, I’m not interested,” says Darcy. “Assholes.”

“No, it’s not,” says Ahsoka. “I think I know why your calls aren’t getting through.”

“Why?” says Darcy, moving around the couch to plop down next to Ahsoka. After a moment, she yawns, and puts her arm around her shoulders.

Ahsoka glances at her, then huffs out a laugh and scoots closer, to let Darcy put her head down on her shoulder.

“The streaker,” the newscaster says, “has been identified as noted astrophysicist Dr. Erik Selvig, and has been taken in by the police for questioning.”

Darcy says, “Well, fuck me with a spoon.”

\--

Malekith.

Malekith is _here_.

The Aether wraps itself around Skywalker’s insides, around the slowly crumbling wall between him and his past, and sings, like a siren calling-- _come for me, I’m here, I’m here._

Skywalker is fighting, still. The damned witch keeping him company is helping him, telling him to hold on, but that will soon be remedied.

Malekith is here, after all, it can sense his presence, the bittersweet tang of his hatred, even here in this too-bright chamber. Even here, in the midst of this miserably golden city.

It calls him.

_Come get me._

\--

John doesn’t consider himself a military commander. Or--he didn’t, up until now, he’s not too sure on that yet. Maybe he was in the military, he thinks, but certainly not the seasoned commander that Sif and Thor seem to think he is.

But he watches the dagger-shaped starfighters slice their way into Asgard and into the palace, the shield disintegrating just before it can fully form, and he says, “The prison break--how much of Asgard’s forces went to deal with it?”

“A good chunk,” says Frigga, grimly. “There’ll be far too few to be able to effectively deal with the Dark Elves.” She pauses, then says, “The timing is too convenient--they must’ve sent someone in.”

John glances at the magical copy of himself sitting on the bed, watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes. The same sick horror he’s feeling inside, he thinks. “Do you think Loki--”

“No,” says Frigga, shaking her head. “Loki had no part in this. I can assure you of that much.” She glances towards the door, then says, her voice firm, “Go. Hide.”

He wants to stay, wants to fight, wants to ask her more, how did she know his last name, what does she know about him, how are they all going to make it through this. But she looks at him, nods to the pillar, and John keeps his mouth shut and goes.

“Thor,” he says, and hopes Frigga will forgive him this one question before he hides behind the pillar. The copy on the bed echoes the name a second later. “He’s all right?” He wants to ask if he’s safe and sound, but if Thor is the sort of man who would go up against something that leveled a small town even without any power, then he’s the sort of man who would fight until his last breath to keep his home and his loved ones safe.

( _Just help me save_ \--)

“He’s all right,” says Frigga, sounding warm and reassuring, even as she snatches up her sword, the sound of someone’s deliberate footsteps echoing beyond the chamber. “But I did say _hide_.”

John hides.

\--

“Stand down, creature, and you may still survive this.”

“I have survived worse, woman,” says Malekith, and even without seeing him, John can feel how _wrong_ he is, like a black hole in the--

No. No, he’s not going to go there.

But Malekith feels _wrong_ , and the sheer wrongness of his presence in this golden chamber, the empty darkness that he exudes, makes John’s skin crawl. It doesn’t help, that his left hand is glowing, and if he reaches out and twitches the curtain aside Malekith would see it, would see the sinister red glow, would _know_.

He doesn’t. He stays still, so still, the only sound he can hear is his own panicked breathing, though--whether that’s truly his, or the magical copy’s, he’s not sure. He covers his mouth with his right hand, breathes through the cracks and crevices of the metal, and tries not to think about the hissing sound his breath makes.

(The respirator hisses even as he speaks, the sound of his own mechanical breathing so loud in his ears--)

He hears the sword swing. Hears the sound of someone smacking against a pillar, and for a moment thinks, dizzily, that maybe Frigga’s won.

Then he hears footsteps. Loud ones, as if the one making them is heavier than a mountain.

He hears Frigga, choking. Hears Malekith, calling to his magical copy. “You have taken something from me, child,” the monster says. “Give it back.”

He’s not a child. He hasn’t been in years. (And slaves were never children, the masters didn’t see children, only littler workers, and you grew up fast or you died--)

“ _Witch!_ ” Malekith screams, snapping John out of his thoughts, out of his--his flashes, whatever they are. “Where is the Aether?”

“I’ll never tell you,” says Frigga, defiant.

(The monster stabs her, the sword severing her spine, and her light burns out in the Force, agonizingly slow--)

“I believe you,” says Malekith.

 _No,_ thinks John. He can’t stop the monster from stabbing her, but maybe she’ll make it if it’s just inches away from her spine, maybe this time he'll save someone instead of killing them, maybe maybe _maybe_ \--

He flings a hand out.

The monster stabs her anyway.

\--

Lightning cracks.

Thunder booms.

John rushes forward, sees the blood pooling under Frigga’s body, her eyes closed as if dying. But her chest rises, falls, rises--she’s still breathing.

She’s _alive_.

Thor cradles her, gentle, even as John works, tearing a strip off his tunic, keeping pressure on the wound, babbling half-remembered nonsense from the Internet and his friends. She lifts a hand up to her son’s cheek, smiles softly up at him.

( _My son, oh, my grown-up son. I’m so proud of you, Ani._ )

John-- _Anakin_ tries not to look. Tries not to think about his own mother, about his own life, about the memories bursting past the wall in his head, like a torrent of blood washing away all the lies he told himself. Tries to think only about the gaping wound Malekith’s monster made in Frigga’s gut, about keeping pressure, stemming the blood flow, red blood staining flesh and metal hands alike--

“Stay with me, Mother,” Thor pleads. “Stay with me--”

Her eyes slip closed.

( _Mom?_ )

\--

They bring her to the healers, first. Frigga, Queen of Asgard, does not die, and Thor is selfishly thankful for that much, but the healers are grim about her chances.

But she is alive.

But not everyone is so lucky.

The dead, when they’ve finally counted them, number in the hundreds--the attack has decimated Asgard’s defenses, and with their queen in a healing sleep, they won’t be able to rebuild the shields in time for another attack. And they certainly cannot rebuild Asgard’s forces in the space of a few months, or even weeks, or whenever Malekith plans to attack.

And he _will_ attack, Thor knows this. Asgard has John, and John has the Aether, still raging inside of him, killing him from the inside out. He’s paler now, drawn and gaunt and quiet, and Thor wonders if this is the Aether, or whatever revelation he’s had in Frigga’s chamber that’s shaken him to his core.

Thor doesn’t ask him to come to the funeral.

John does anyway. His hands shake, and his breathing hitches, but he stands ramrod straight and still, as the first boat belonging to a captain of the Einherjar is set ablaze, as all the rest of the boats go up in flames, as the boats fall away from the edge of the lake, their ashes mingling with the stardust.

Thor takes his hand, and he freezes for a moment, before hesitantly letting his fingers curl around Thor’s.

They watch, until the last boat falls away.

\--

Anakin goes. He owes it to these people, after all, to at least stand watch, even if he wants--he doesn’t really know what he wants, anymore.

Thor hadn’t asked him to come, maybe to spare him from seeing what his presence has wrought. It’s thoughtful of him, but Anakin has to see, has to watch. He owes it to them, considering it’s because of him that they’re all dead.

There are hundreds of boats, burning on the lake, and hundreds of lanterns, floating into the night sky. If he closes his eyes, he might see the corpses of hundreds of Jedi Knights and Padawans, the Temple burning bright against the Coruscanti sky.

The first boat falls away, followed by the rest of them.

People start leaving midway through the ceremony, after watching their own dead loved ones’ ashes float away into the stars. Anakin can’t blame them, and he certainly can’t blame Thor for leaving as well.

But he stays, and watches the last boat fall away, the last lantern float up until he can’t tell which light comes from a star or a lantern. He sits down, then closes his eyes.

He’s seen this before, he knows now, but not so slowly as this procession. He’s seen it with Order 66, with Alderaan, but then it had been millions of lights in the Force, suddenly flickering out like candles in a strong wind. He hadn’t paid attention to either of them, so immersed was he in the darkness.

He’s not now, though. He hasn’t been in some time, no matter what the Aether is doing inside him. And he owes it to these people. He owes it to the Jedi, to Alderaan, to _Leia_. God, he owes so much, his hands are so stained with blood that he half-thinks he’ll never be able to touch anything again, not without staining it.

When Odin’s guards come, asking him to come with them, dawn is starting to break over the horizon, and Anakin hasn’t slept.

He goes with them, and looks back but once.

Then they walk away.


End file.
